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Ryan grimaced. "Yeah."
"Why not?"
His excuses seemed flimsy. "My mom kicking my ass out if I didn't get a job did more."
"She did what?!"
Avenging angel Erin just appeared. She was hot but unnecessary. He held up a hand and shook his head. "Tough love. She was right: it was time for me to get out and be around people and get out of her basement. I've been less depressed since I got a job."
Erin gazed at him, the fury fading slowly. "But it doesn't make it go away, I'm sure. That's not something that's going to disappear, is it."
She wasn't asking. Erin probably knew way too much about this subject. "No." He stared blankly out at the trees. The silence wasn't as comfortable this time.
"You're always welcome here. Talk or not as you want. Just come over. There's usually beer and food in the fridge."
"Thanks." Erin was completely sincere, so the silence was comfortable again. Ryan blanked his mind, concentrating on the trees and the shifting shadows. They sat, drank beer, and watched the sun slowly descend toward the mountaintops. Finally, when the sun was touching the mountaintops, Erin sighed and rose, picking up dishes. He jumped up to help, and they got it all cleaned up quickly.
Erin flipped on the TV but didn't sit. The local news played. She pointed at the couch. "Have a seat. I'm going to load the dishwasher, then join you to watch the news. I'll get you a sheet, blanket, and pillow after that, if you still want to sleep on the couch."
"Want help? You don’t need to wait on me.”
"No, thanks." She shrugged. “I know where everything is.”
"Okay." He plopped down, still amazed after all these months back home at the lack of violent crime and the relatively large number of fatal traffic accidents. Why couldn't people wear their seat belts? And why drink and drive? Ryan shook his head in wonder and despair at the stupidity of people.
After the clinking of dishes, Erin sat down at the other end of the couch. They watched the news together until the sports came on, when she got up and trod upstairs. A minute later, a stack of soft stuff landed on his lap, and he looked up to see her grinning at him. She crossed to her bedroom door. "Even though we're not working tomorrow, I always get up at the same time; way too early.” She tilted her head with a half-smile. “My body reacts better that way. Goodnight."
"Goodnight." That was probably a smart tactic. He was tired too—all that emotional stuff did it every time. He put the sheet down on the couch and the blanket at the foot, figuring he probably wouldn't need it. He brushed his teeth, then put on a pair of lightweight cotton pants and grabbed his weapon, returning to the couch.
Putting his .45 on the coffee table, Ryan punched the pillow and lay down. It was a surprisingly comfortable couch but not so comfortable he'd forget where he was. Which, with a possible attack, was a good thing.
Chapter 11
Nights Are Dangerous
Erin woke with a jolt. Moonlight pierced the gaps in her bedroom curtains, but nothing moved, nothing was out of place. Perhaps a deer or raccoon outside made enough noise to wake her. She grabbed her weapon from the nightstand and, leaning on the wall, lifted the curtain away a bit. She peered out the bedroom window, careful not to silhouette herself in case someone was out there. Nothing moved.
A voice. Muffled. Coming from the living room.
Ryan was out there, sleeping. Her heart thudded.
Standing to the side, she cracked the bedroom door, letting her eyes adjust. Everything looked normal. Except Ryan, thrashing and moaning on the couch. Erin sagged against the wall. A nightmare. She put her nine mil back on her nightstand and returned to the couch. She moved his weapon to the far side of the coffee table so he wouldn't grab it and sat down on the edge of the table.
"Ryan," she whispered. His arms windmilled, and she barely ducked in time. She put her hand on his shoulder, firmly, ready to jump out of the way. "Ryan."
He grabbed her hand, pulling it off his bare shoulder, but held on and sat up, blinking at her.
"Ryan, are you okay? You were having a nightmare, I think."
He shivered and shuddered like a horse, then blinked a few more times. "Yeah, I'm okay. Sorry." His voice was deep and sleep-roughened.
"No problem." His hand surrounded hers, almost too hot. "You sure? You want to talk about it?"
He shook his head but kept holding her hand. Erin nodded. There were certainly worse things she could do than hold a man's hand in the middle of the night. His hand might be hot, but it was strong and the grip firm, his skin a little rough and callused. Oh. She was holding a sexy man's hand. Without a shirt, the true extent of his injuries—and hotness—was clear. Scars slashed along his side where he'd lost the arm, but underneath the tattoos of trauma, he'd built a six- or maybe an eight-pack, with firm pecs and solid shoulders. Mind off the poor kid's chest, Erin. Eyes up. She looked at his face, but his eyes were on her chest. The night air was cool, but suddenly it was way too hot.
He looked into her eyes. She didn't know what Ryan was thinking, but it sure wasn't about his nightmare. Erin sucked in a breath, trying to get her emotions back under control, and his eyes returned to her chest. Everything tightened in reaction. Whoa. Ryan works for you, remember? He's eight years younger. She stood, and her hand slid out of his; she mourned the loss. She swallowed, trying to wet her mouth. "Sure you're okay?"
"Yeah," he said in a rough voice. "Thanks." He flopped down, turning away from her. She slid his weapon back over to his side of the coffee table and went back to her bed. It's going to be a long night. A long, lonely night.
